


Bouquet of Rosés

by ChampagneSly



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:31:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosé wine, Edgeworth taking a moment to smell the roses, and Phoenix being kind of a troll.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bouquet of Rosés

**Author's Note:**

> Goodness, this is like the heyday of my APH fandom experience, when I couldn’t go a day without wanting to write something and being full of silly ideas (and some bigger, less silly ideas that just require more time than I have at the moment!).
> 
> Of course, it wasn’t going to take long before my other love—wine—made its way into my AA writing.

Miles closed his eyes, took the deep breaths that everyone told him were good for relaxing the body and mind, and tried to think of anything other than the stacks of files he could have been reading because those same people that insisted he take deep breaths were also annoyingly persistent in demanding he take the occasional afternoon off.  He had been told that there was more to life than the inside of the courtroom, had been cajoled and harassed into countless evenings on the town drinking wretchedly awful beer, and had been forced to attempt all manner of illogically enthusiastic greetings. Worst of all, the most damning, was that he continued to be desperately tempted towards all manner of unnecessary activities when a certain someone, who should have known better than to ask things of Miles, kissed him first thing in the morning and said:

“ _Take it easy today, okay?”_  

And though he had no intention of making a habit of listening to Phoenix Wright, there was something in the quiet warmth of a Saturday afternoon that made him want to put down his papers, take off his glasses, and turn his face towards the sun.  He had felt that strange, still unfamiliar craving for something other than drive and purpose, to give into the exhaustion that so often lingered beneath the ordered layers of his mind and think of nothing at all, if only for a little while.  He had cursed Wright for infecting him with such indulgent whims, but removed his glasses nonetheless, incapable of ignoring the little whisper that continued to insist it wasn’t a crime to want things for himself.

As such, it was irrefutably Wright’s fault that he found himself sitting in a lounge chair, half-dressed, and not entirely comfortable with the idea that it was acceptable to waste time with the feeling of the sun on his chest and the taste of wine on his tongue. And yet, despite his reservations, despite the nagging sense that he was failing to live up to someone, somewhere’s expectation, the wine was good, the sunlight was warm, and Miles was willing to entertain the heretical idea that perhaps Wright had a point.  He listened to the breeze, the wittering of the birds, and the not-too-distant hum of the city while he forcefully and systematically filed away his concerns for another moment in time—a moment when he wasn’t already opening his mouth for another sip of wine.

It was, for so unnecessary an indulgence, undeniably pleasant.

Until, of course, all his best laid plans were once more ruined by the same voice that drove him to madness in court and to dangerous agreeableness at home.

“Wow,” the voice said with the happy tone of spurious amusement that always made Miles want to slam his hands down on something.

“Wow, what?” Miles said threateningly, opening his eyes to find Wright looming above him, blocking the sun from Miles’ face and smiling that little smile that always meant Wright was going to say something asinine.

“Just, wow.”  Wright’s gaze raked up his chest, admiring but still unsettling for all that Miles had fallen asleep and woken up to same stare of appreciation more times than he cared to remember.

Once had been a mistake, twice had been experiment, three times a pattern, and after the fourth, fifth, twenty-fifth time, it had become a habit.

Wright had become his habit.  

Miles shifted in his chair, sighed and glared, still waiting for Wright to spit out whatever was on the tip of his ever-wagging tongue.   

Wright’s smile parted, and lo, just as expected, ridiculousness came forth:

“I mean, wow, you even drink pink wine? I’m impressed.”

“And I’m continually impressed by the depths your ignorance,” Miles said coldly, despite the sudden heat on his cheeks, while Wright just laughed and made himself at home on the edge of his chair.  Miles took another deep breath, another slow, deliberate sip of wine and murmured,  “Its called rosé, you fool, and this happens to be the perfect vintage for a summer afternoon.”

“It also happens to be pink. How convenient,” Wright teased, running the pads of his fingers up the curve of his side, thumb pressing to the dip of his navel. Miles categorically refused to squirm, refused to give Wright the satisfaction. “So, can I have some?”

Miles smiled thinly and took pleasure in also refusing that satisfaction. “Absolutely not.”

“What?! How come?” Wright asked, eyebrows creeping up his forehead and lips curling downward in a gratifying pout.

Miles shook his head and swatted Wright’s wandering hand from his thigh, sighing heavily as he explained the all too obvious, “Because it would be wasted on a heathen like you.”

“A heathen like me? Nice, Edgeworth,” Wright muttered with that aggravating fondness Miles’ wished he loathed. Miles brought his glass to his lips and looked away, ignoring Wright when he put his hand on Miles’ chest, as if it was somehow more acceptable there than on his thigh, and asked beseechingly, “You’re really not going to let me try it?”

“No, I’m really not,” Miles said, enjoying the flavor of sun-ripened peach and the frowning shape of Wright’s consternation.

Wright sighed noisily, rubbed his hand through his impossible hair and said, “Then I guess I have no other choice.”

“No other choice?” Miles looked at him warily and swallowed.

Wright smiled at him, slowly, hesitantly, answering, “That’s right, if you won’t let me have a taste of my own, I guess I’ll just have to some of yours.”

“Mine?” Miles drank deeply, draining the glass, and licking his lips.

Wright shifted closer, the hand on his chest pressing him back against the chair until Miles was staring up at that familiar determined expression, the sunlight stinging his eyes as he tried to avoid the sweetness that lurked in the corners of Wright’s wavering smile.  Wright plucked the wine glass from his hand, let it dangle from the fingers that weren’t occupied with cupping his chin and stroking the slant of his jaw.

“Yours.”

  
Wright’s nose rubbed his cheek, murmured laughter rushed over his skin, and the touch of their lips was warm and close and startlingly pleasant, like the indulgence of a Saturday afternoon. Miles closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and shared the secret taste of happiness.


End file.
